


In the Deep

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, M/M, Please heed author notes for warnings, it's a monster mash!, mermaids and ghosts and demons oh my, practically a graveyard smash!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27033610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: Where heroes venture, monsters lie.Or: a growing collection of various monster AUs centering on the Shadowbringers crew, and especially on G'raha Tia, Emet-Selch, and the Warrior of Light.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	1. Mermaid AU - G'raha, WOL, Emet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **characters:** Emet-Selch, G'raha Tia, Warrior of Light (Meteor)  
>  **prompt:** mermaids & pirates/rebels AU
> 
> no warnings apply. This mermaid/piratesy AU that has a lot of fun and makes little sense. Please enjoy! Technically based on the emet/wol week day 2 challenge of "ocean/rain," except g'raha is there too because why not.

“Meteor! Don’t let go!”

“Of you, G’raha, or this accursed chest?!”

“Either, if you wouldn’t mind!”

“That may be a tall or--d-”

With a crash of saltwater upon their heads, the turbulent sea stole the last of Meteor’s parting words. Ere long, its raging current dragged them into its most darkened depths. Fortunately, Meteor had his blessing from the river demi-gods that allowed him to breathe water as if it were air. Though G’raha hadn’t the same, just before their small boat had capsized under the squall’s gusting winds, he had cast an incredible spell that gave him functioning gills for as long as he was submerged. He’d also hastily blanketed them with an enduring warming charm to fight the ocean’s chill, which Meteor sorely appreciated as their flooded boat dropped beneath their feet and they were dunked into its icy embrace.

Unsurprising, such spellcasting took a toll upon G'raha. Considering he managed on the strength of his own aether what other magicians (of which there were no more than ten or so in the world, as far as Meteor knew) required massive amounts of rare components -- most including hard-won monster-parts -- and a year's worth of designing an extremely complicated ritual to do, the toll - the slow crystalizing of his body - was an equivalent exchange of some measure.

Such willy-nilly spellcasting was usually something Krile chided G’raha on, but she wasn’t around to do that, and Meteor didn’t feel it was right, considering its current life-saving circumstances. 

As requested (and by sheer strength and determination), Meteor kept one hand tight upon the unfortunately more-metal-than-wood chest’s leftmost handle and another on G’raha’s much smaller, all-crystal-no-flesh hand. The problem they faced upon their rowboat’s loss had less to do with their ability to breathe underwater (although they wouldn’t have faced another problem at all had they lacked that ability) and more with the precious cargo that they absolutely couldn’t keep afloat for long without aid. As they were currently in the middle of _nowhere_ , caught between fleeing the Empire that they had robbed from and an unexpected storm at sea, that was a problem indeed. 

At least once they stopped fighting the current and let themselves sink, the storm’s merciless grasp slipped from the waters around them. As if the storm above were a dream meant to be forgotten, their world became chillingly still. Though the calm of the ocean’s deep gave Meteor a creepy, haunted feeling, it at least became far easier to keep a hold on G’raha and the chest. 

It also became much more difficult to see, though opening their eyes was a struggle already with the salt. It grew difficult to breathe, too, even with their respective blessings. The pressure mounted swiftly, squeezing them til it felt their innards were trying very hard to become their outtards. 

They needed to let go of the cargo. Rationally, Meteor knew that. Without it, they could tread water until the storm passed and they could surface. From there, G’raha could cast some sort of spell to alert whoever was nearby to their location, who would ideally swing around to see what they were about.

(That was a very optimistic chain of events. Meteor did his best to believe in it with the whole of his heart. Anything less spelled despair.)

But even as he knew he needed to open his hand and let it fall, his fingers remained frozen around its handle. After all, they had struggled so long to get it! The riches it contained-- no, more than that! What it signified: a _win_ against the Empire, to be distributed about the populace once they made landfall-- it would assure them of fine lodgings for _days_ , if not weeks, and give the rebellion a good morale boosting to boot!

(Not that Meteor knew what was in the chest, exactly, but that was roughly what Alphinaud’s intel had told them, so, he imagined it to be quite good indeed.)

… Except they weren’t going to get it to the people if they were stuck at the bottom of the _ocean._

That was true.

Also, it had grown completely dark around them, and the pressure near unbearable. They were likely closer to the floor than any sane person would want to be, which meant they still had a long ways to go. It would’ve been a miracle if they made it there alive.

The chest could rot there, safely out of the Empire’s grasp. That would be just fine for a rallying cry, too.

Meteor opened his mouth to inform G’raha of his intent to drop the chest, then realized it was unlikely G’raha could hear him. Instead he squeezed G’raha’s hand, hoping to communicate there that he would not let go but that he was definitely letting the chest go.

G’raha squeezed back, which didn’t necessarily mean anything, but did make Meteor feel a little better. 

Then G’raha’s hand began to heat, which meant it was probably glowing. A nifty little trick that G’raha liked to pull out whenever he forgot his fire-starting kit or torch, which was often. Meteor forced his eyes open despite the burn, only to immediately close them again as the usually soft-blue of his crystal turned blinding in the pitch black. 

Keeping his eyes closed, Meteor waggled his elbow in a way that hopefully meant _I’m about to let go of this stupid chest, because we’re more important than whatever’s in there._ G’raha, not being an idiot about their chances of survival with it literally weighing them down, squeezed his hand in acquiescence. Meteor took that to mean that he was ready to do the same on the other side.

Forcing his white-knuckled grip to loosen upon its handle, Meteor dropped the chest. 

Instantly, it became far easier to slow their descent. As Meteor kicked his legs to get them going the other way -- the better way, up! -- to his delight, they quickly rose.

The water muffled the storm’s howling. Deep as they’d sank, it was near-silent save the beat of their own hearts in their ears.

When _something_ big and plush and unnaturally smooth brushed along Meteor’s leg, it startled him. Badly.

 _Seaweed_ , he thought, inanely. _Felt like a huge coil of disgusting, clinging seaweed._

Not liking that one bit, he kicked harder, and found himself dragging G’raha up, his grip iron around his friend. It was as though the other had suddenly stopped swimming altogether.

And then, just as quick, it was as if the other had grabbed hold of not just their mostly-metal chest, but wanted desperately to sink with it. Rather than steadily rising (which, the crystal was not especially buoyant, so, he expected to pull a bit of G’raha’s weight too, but the force was far more than G’raha’s weight alone!), Meteor found himself sinking anew. Less sinking, actually, and more-- dragging. Dragged. _Yanked._ As though G’raha had dropped anchor off the side of a waterfall, and Meteor was the tiny boat plummeting down with it. 

He felt G’raha try to let go of Meteor’s hand. 

As G’raha wasn’t some trunk better left to rot, he ignored it.

He heard G’raha’s muffled shouts, and felt him struggling with whatever had him. All Meteor could do was hold on and hope they reached their destination sooner than later.

For surely there had to be a destination, right? This was some sort of monster-- and monsters, Meteor knew what to do with. They would be taken to its lair -- hopefully not too deep -- and he would fight it, and G’raha would fight it too, and they’d be fine, and-- it’d be in a cave, with treasure to pillage, or at least a safe place they could rest--

(More very optimistic thinking. It was Meteor’s go-to during extremely bad times.)

Water pressure again mounted. Meteor’s ears popped. His bones felt crushed, his eyes threatened to leave his skull. He opened his mouth, lost his breath, tried to yell or snarl or maybe say a prayer--

Then, suddenly: air.

The water’s abrupt lack meant they fell a full fulm and faceplanted into what _seemed_ to be more water, except it was very solid and cold and not a little painful. Meteor felt his nose go numb from the impact. His lip split at the same time, knocked between tooth and whatever they’d landed on, the salty air immediately stinging it badly.

Beside him, arm yet aglow, G’raha took in great, gulping breathes, apparently as startled by his sudden lack of gills as Meteor was at their finding solid-ish land. Meteor watched with vague confusion as he sat up and brushed hastily at his trouser leg, even though nothing was there. 

\-- Oh. The monster had probably been there.

Except the monster was now nowhere…?

“I’m afraid,” G’raha panted, as his mind caught up with his panic and he forcibly stilled himself, eyes yet focused on his feet, “that something grabbed us…”

No kidding.

Grunting an affirmative, Meteor propped himself up on hands and knees and looked around.

They were in what was undeniably and inexplicable a very small bubble of air with a strangely flat bed of seawater. They had enough room to stand and take a few steps around in. Around them was black as pure and deep as the ocean.

No rocks, no sand, no cave... No monster. No anything, actually. All nothingness.

“-- Hello?”

Glancing to G’raha, who spoke with the politely curios tone that he only used when he was truly startled, Meteor followed his gaze toward the bubble’s back (and G’raha’s front).

There, it turned out, was the monster.

Meteor had mistaken its movements for natural shifts -- plankton, tiny fishes and the like -- in the ocean water. But what surrounded their bubble wasn’t water, or at least it wasn’t only water; rather, a creature too long and too big surrounded them, its tentacles a mass of writhing black around their unnatural shelter. Once Meteor saw the flesh for what it was, he noticed how G’raha’s light caught the edges of its thick arms, with purple, octopus-like suckers luring within its folds.

They seemed to be caught in a…

“Giant… squid…?”

“All the creatures of the deep, and _that’s_ what you would call me?” The black parted for a large, ghostly white form: a man thrice the height of the tallest sailor, looking akin to the top half of a skeleton painted with skin, his ribs shadowed and arms stick-thin. His hair flowed about him as if in mimicry of the tentacles, long and black with a silver streak on his right. Hands tucked behind his back, the gills on his neck moving slow and steady as any fish at rest, he regarded them with lazy, pale yellow eyes, looking akin to a hungry cat’s just before it ate its canary. “Try again.”

His voice came through clearly, resounding around them as if spoken by the sea itself. Upon his physical form, black and purple scales dappled his skin. They concentrated most along his sides, then converged into what Meteor guessed were the tentacles.

This was clearly their bubble-maker, and also G’raha’s foot-grabber. Likely, they’d accidentally wandered into his territory and so he’d snagged G’raha and hoped to drown him (as the stories went), but when he’d realized he could breathe despite clearly being a human...

After realizing that, the answer was plain.

“Half giant squid, half man,” Meteor said, deadpan.

The man scowled, then rolled his eyes. “Far be it for me to expect anything better from a pair of land-monkeys. Well, then, I’d best return you to the depths that were set to claim you--”

“Ketos,” G’raha said, working quickly to soothe the creature’s ego, “of the merperson variant. Cousin to the bythos and kraken.”

A smile (rather, a smirk) lit upon the monster’s face. “‘Merperson’ was plenty. No need to act so clever when we both know that this is the first time you’ve ever laid eyes upon one capable of speech.”

“How do you know that?” Meteor asked. He’d hoped it would inspire the creature to go into a long-winded monologue about how special he was, as was a common inclination for powerful beings.

To his side, G’raha winced. 

That was the only warning Meteor got before the merperson’s temper flared. His smirk shifted into a harsh sneer, his sharper teeth on full display. He pulled his hands from his back to tap around the edges of their magical prison-slash-lifebubble, revealing long, blackened claws tipped in startling white.

“Because I am one of the last of my kind, and we are no longer so foolish as to entertain the idea that you might peacefully depart our presence while you yet draw breath!” As he spoke, his tentacles closed around their bubble. The space they had to move in shrank alarmingly fast, forcing the two of them to bump into one another and crouch low before the monster. “For surely you would return more numerous and more villainous than before, with nets and spears in hand and violence in heart, determined to drag me from my home and leave me to dry in the sun ‘til you might make a feast of my flesh!”

“That sounds horrid,” Meteor protested, sincere in both his disgust at the image and his alarm over their safety-bubble’s continued shrinking. “Why would we ever do that? I don’t even know you!”

“We have no need of what you offer!” G’raha added, clearly knowing something more than Meteor did.

Neither protest seemed to reach the monster’s ears. Likely, there was no right choice.

To their left, the black mass that made up his tentacles dipped and twisted. Cradled securely in their tangle was a box. From G’raha’s blue glow and their close vantage point, the metal edges of the cargo that had gotten them into this mess were made clear. 

As soon as they saw it, the monster hissed and fumed, “No need? _No need?_ By the stench of stolen magics, you are alive and well despite how far you’ve strayed from your precious surface. More damning was that box you dropped, as though it carried nothing of import-- when in fact it housed the missing remnants of _my_ brother!”

The bubble shrank another fulm. Any cozier, and they’d be looking at a few broken bones from the walls’ solid press.

Making a hasty bid for peace, Meteor pled honest ignorance. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” he cried, “they were transporting a dead merperson?!”

“ _You_ ,” the creature snarled, “were transporting pieces of my murdered brother.”

“The magic you sense comes not from the-- from him, or any other of your kin!” G’raha argued, a strained note in his usually unruffled voice as their situation grew a closer to ‘dire.’ “It flows from within me, and only me. Though I know many stole their skills from you and yours, neither of us partook in such disdainful practices. We work to undermine those that do!”

“So you say,” he countered, abruptly dropping into a calm that felt like they’d reached the eye of the hurricane and were just waiting to get crushed by its second wave, “but can you prove what you claim?”

Probably, he had challenged other desperate humans to the same game. Meteor supposed they had all failed, as his sneer faded and his eyes widened when G’raha worked his crystal hand out from where it’d been caught between their bodies and, with an invocation Meteor didn’t understand at all, turned a piece of their watery prison into thin, sparkling ice. 

“Impossible...” the creature murmured, bringing his face closer to the frost. “Aside from my own, I’ve not met another sorcerer in eons.”

With rapt attention, he watched as it melted back into the ocean.

Though it had dissolved almost immediately, the display clearly satisfied the monster’s need for proof. That was pretty accommodating of him, Meteor privately thought, especially as once the ice melted, he drew his massive tentacles back from their bubble’s edges and again expanded their space so that they might stand.

They slowly disentangled from one another and stood on shaky legs. Meteor kept a steadying hand on G’raha, not wanting to let go just in case the bubble was ripped out from under them. G’raha gave him a small smile, appreciative of the reminder, warmth, or both.

Uncaring of their little moment, the merman set his eyes upon G’raha. 

He demanded, “Show me more of what you are capable of.”

“Of course,” G’raha said, diplomatically, “I’d be happy to. Once we -- _both_ of us -- have been returned to the surface.”

Regarding them both, the creature drew slightly back. He set two of his claws to his chin, tapping there as though in thought. As he did, his tentacles covered the box to their left, secreting it away from their view.

They definitely weren’t getting that back. After learning its contents, Meteor definitely didn’t mind.

“Or,” G’raha added quickly, clearing his throat awkwardly, “merely being allowed to swim under our own volition would be sufficient.”

“I’ve a lair,” because of _course_ he did, gods forbid a monster ever go without a _lair_ , “where you might demonstrate your prowess to your utmost ability. After that, we might discuss what will come of you... and your less magically inclined friend.” 

Were merpeople carnivorous? The teeth and claws made Meteor think _yes._ G’raha probably knew. G’raha really needed to spill everything he knew about these merpeople as quickly and covertly as possible before Meteor accidentally insulted their big, temperamental jailer again.

Worse, though, was that they held grudges against entire species. At least, this one did.

If they got pulled to the lair, they were not getting out.

G’raha seemed to have to same realization, as he backed up a step and said, with a forced chuckle, “Now, ah, we need not be hast--y--!”

Unlike his magician friend, Meteor saw the tentacles slipping up through the floor a second before they wrapped around their waists. Bracing himself, he turned his grip on G’raha’s shoulder into iron just as the floor dropped out and down, down, _down_ they were dragged.

(After clever dealing and honest promises that they did in fact keep, they made it to the surface again. Much to their friend’s surprise, who thought they’d lied about the whole thing to cover up the forever-lost cargo, they thereafter ran into the merman again -- under both the best and worst circumstances the sea had to offer.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this a pic of [octomaid emet-selch](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff/status/1316905383949144064?s=20)?! it sure is


	2. Ghost Hunting - G'raha, WOL, Emet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spoiler Warning for Shadowbringers, Patch 5.3!**
> 
> **characters:** G'raha Tia, Meteor, Emet-Selch, Misc. Convocation.  
>  **prompt:** ghost hunting + modern fantasy au. still set in 'Eorzea,' but Eorzea functions like it's in the 21st century.
> 
> inspired by day 3 of emetwol(/graha) week, "I knew you once upon a time / kiss." no warnings apply. it started out a lil tongue-in-cheek spooky but quickly became... i'm not even sure, haha. enjoy!

G’raha Tia, geological anthropologist by trade and paranormal investigator by enthusiastic hobby, had brought his long-time friend, Meteor, on many a fruitless hunt.

Over the last decade of chasing ghost stories in the hopes of coming across something truly supernatural, they had rooted up abnormally smart raccoons, possums, and bats. They’d found more than a few cool-looking coins, tools, and trinkets, all completely explainable and absolutely non-magical. On a few memorable occasions, they’d been assured of a facility’s abandoned quality only to come face-to-face with extremely confused and beragged tenants and squatters. Every failure inspired G’raha to search farther, research harder, and _do better_. His tenacity was a really admirable quality that G’raha claimed to have gotten from Meteor’s own successful entrepreneurial history. While Meteor wasn’t so sure about that, he liked G’raha, and he liked the excuse to travel to far-off, curious areas of Eorzea with him. He especially liked investigating the ridiculous local legends.

The most recent one involved a large cave system that had, sometime in the last two centuries, been redesigned into a bunker complex. Rumor had it that a cult fixated on Darkness (with a capital D) had turned the caves into a habitable network of safe rooms to survive the ‘Ardor,’ which was an impending apocalypse. Rumor also had it that the entire cult had disappeared one full moon night, after a ritual went so wrong that their summoned demons had devoured their very souls. 

By the overwhelming number of ancient, faded, demonic-looking sigils scrawled over the bunker’s doors and walls, the cult had definitely been dedicated to the Darkness. Still, on first impression, Meteor thought it more likely that they’d gathered somewhere deep in the ground and been buried by a cave-in. 

G’raha remained tentatively optimistic that an evil presence might yet linger. He admitted the demon could have just caused a cave-in, rather than go through all the messy work of eating a bunch of living people’s souls.

“Whatever else we might find,” G’raha said as they forced open a heavy, rusty-hinged wooden door to expose another damp, sparse-aside-from-the-demonic-symbols room, “the sigils perfectly match the ones that are supposed to represent the thirteen harbingers of Darkness.”

“Why thirteen?”

“Probably because it’s an unlucky number for most Eorzean cultures.” 

That seemed roundabout to Meteor. He said as much. “So which came first, its unluckiness or the harbingers of Darkness?”

“Chronologically? The harbingers.” G’raha directed his flashlight all about the small room. There was a thin rotten rug, a few broken crates containing equally broken glass, and -- as with the rest of the place -- two huge, spiky, red sigils. Their flecking paint faded even further under his flashlight’s beam. “The one on the left there is… Igeyorhm’s, while the rightmost is-- oh, it’s very faint, but if I’d have to guess, it’s Lahabrea’s. They’re often depicted together, as they balanced the destructive power between ice and fire.”

“They must be happy about that…”

G’raha blinked his way. “They?”

Meteor blinked back. “Those two you mentioned. They must be happy about--”

He stopped.

Frowned.

And finally said, a little confused at his own newfound hesitation (or why he’d even said what he’d said), “Being… together?”

“... I suppose,” G’raha said, smiling awkwardly. “If I were an ancient being, I’d probably want a friend.”

“Yeah, exactly…”

G’raha cleared his throat. “In any case. This is but the first of many rooms, and it clearly bares little of import. Shall we continue?”

Meteor nodded, and stepped back to let him lead. 

Though their hunts had never led to anything substantial or even overtly convincing, G’raha always made sure to research the customs expected from a visitor to a particular site. He ostensibly did it so that they wouldn’t get their teeth knocked in by an angry ghost, but Meteor suspected he just really liked to dive into cultures and put what he learned into real-time practice. That respect without expecting anything in return was another part of what Meteor liked about him. It was also why G’raha often _led_ in their adventures, as Meteor was sure to accidentally break the all-important vase and get them cursed if left to his own devices.

The thing was, they’d never been at risk of being cursed. Because they’d never gone anywhere actually haunted.

Here, though? This time?

… It seemed a little more legitimate than their usual.

The problem was, he couldn’t even say _why._ It was just that every new room gave Meteor tenfold the creeps than the previous. Touching ancient demon-summoning symbols usually meant nothing to him except for a sense of enjoyment at G’raha’s flailing about it. Here, the very idea made his skin crawl. 

These sigils actually felt sacred. Moreover, they felt protected. 

He felt _watched._ It was a familiar feeling.

It really shouldn’t have been a familiar feeling.

“The earlier symbols by the entrance were standard-fare, but what we’ve been seeing in the rooms are the marks of the harbingers themselves. What remnants we see now were likely once the focal point of a shrine, whereat the patrons would perform rituals in the hope the harbingers would answer their call.”

“And this one is Elidibus’?”

“-- Ah, yes. It is, actually.” G’raha blinked at him again, looking pleasantly surprised and also gently suspicious. “I hadn’t known you’d read the articles that I sent you.”

“I hadn’t,” Meteor admitted. He never did. He preferred experiencing the sites _in the moment._

“Really? You hadn’t mentioned knowing of these legends before. They used to be a well-known fable meant to warn against greed and hubris -- and, of course, straying going into the wilderness late at night, and eating one’s vegetables, and anything else a parent might need to threaten their child into behaving.”

“I hadn’t known that, either.”

“Perhaps you’d… heard the names in another context?”

“Perhaps.”

G’raha hummed, unconvinced but likely thinking it a topic best dived into when they weren’t a dozen rooms deep into a spooky cave-turned-cult-safehouse.

Though he tinkered for longer in Elidibus’ room, trying unsuccessfully to rouse any related demons into speaking to him or messing with his radio equipment, he eventually declared Elidibus’ room as unremarkable as the prior ones. Before he left, he set up a little white bowl of berries beneath the splayed-wing sigil. Even though he didn’t think anything was going on, he wanted to observe the proper departure rituals. 

It was nice of him. Great of him, actually, though Meteor personally would’ve picked a different type of fruit. Grapes, maybe. The vineyards near Costa del Sol had decent ones… But that would’ve been so far out of the way.

After they left the room, G’raha stopped outside its door and turned to ask Meteor, “You know, the cave is far more chill than expected. I would not mind leaving early.”

“... Eh?” They’d never left early! And they’d been in much grosser, colder places than a damp old cave. “But we’ve got two rooms left.”

G’raha’s eyes shifted about, from Elidibus’ door to down the hallway. “Perhaps they’d rather not be disturbed.”

“That’s never stopped us before. Hadn’t you brought something to appease them? I remember having to make a special shopping trip for the right kind of crystal.”

“You did…”

“What’s the real issue?”

“Truthfully?” He stopped shifting about and met Meteor’s eyes directly. “Are you well?”

“Of course.”

G’raha scrutinized him closely.

Meteor gave him one of his trademark, everything-is-fine grins.

Though it took longer than normal, G’raha eventually bought it. Moreover, they really _did_ only have two rooms left, and he clearly would’ve hated to leave those last few stones unturned.

“If anything feels off, you must tell me at once,” G’raha reminded him.

Meteor laughed. “Obviously! You’re the actual expert here. To be honest, I guess I am a little chilly...”

G’raha hummed, clearly unconvinced. Nonetheless, he led the way to the second last room.

\- - -

Just before they’d left Elidibus’ room, Meteor had stared at the cracked, long-forgotten sigil. 

He’d swear up and down that it had stared back.

\- - -

G’raha would’ve been overjoyed at hearing that report. It would’ve given him _I told you so_ rights for _months._

So why couldn’t he find it in himself to tell him?

\- - -

The second to last room had a sigil so familiar it stole Meteor’s breath.

Not the big one on the wall, but a smaller one just below it. 

The big one was Emet-Selch’s. As a particularly picky harbinger, G’raha had to do five stages of rituals just to enter his room. In the midst of his third incantation for safety from the Architect’s dismal designs, Meteor noticed the tiny sigil.

Knowing its pronounciation, he asked, “Who’s Azem?”

G’raha stumbled over his recitation of ancient poetry (which wasn’t even that good! Emet-Selch had always been a pompous ass), stuttering out a, “-- S-sorry? Azem?” as his attention shifted to Meteor.

Meteor pointed to the little sigil. It was startlingly well-maintained compared to the others.

Seeming to notice it for the first time, G’raha shined his light directly on it.

“I… don’t know,” he said, haltingly. “Nothing mentioned that name before. Why do you think it represents ‘Azem?’”

Because that was what it said.

When he opened his mouth to say as much, the words no longer wanted to be heard. Instead they stuck in the back of his throat, awkward and gangly and altogether not feeling like _words_ at all.

By how he clutched his flashlight to his chest, his tail swished and his ears wobbled downward, G’raha’s concern skyrocketed. He knew Meteor to be prone to silences, preferring action over word, but -- not in the face of a direct question. 

“Right,” he declared, taking a step back from the room’s entrance, his intent to enter abandoned, “I think we’ve seen enough. I hope you would forgive me if I am the one to call off our excursion this time around-- _hello?_ Who’s there?”

Voice rising sharply at the end, he swung around to face the way they had come. Between one blink and the next, his flashlight’s beam illuminated nothing but cold stone -- then, suddenly: a humanoid figure, standing just off to the side. 

Meteor spun on his heel to face the figure, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. Adrenaline heightened his senses, his blood abruptly sounding loud in his ears.

Another blink, and it was gone.

“A shade…?” G’raha murmured. “O-or, our eyes playing tricks on us?”

 _Neither_ , Meteor thought.

“‘Neither’ would be correct,” a voice answered. “Well done.”

Following it, Meteor turned back to the room bearing Emet-Selch’s and Azem’s sigils.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw G’raha’s ear twitch and then he turn toward the room as well. A bit of Meteor was gladdened by that, because the voice didn’t sound… _right._

Rather, it didn’t sound real. It echoed from everywhere and nowhere; from inside and outside; each syllable a pull both stronger and weaker than the last. It swayed from the shadows, thick with sneering malice, made the animal within want to run and hide in plain daylight, for certainly nothing with a voice like that could exist outside of darkness or nightmares.

It came from the larger sigil inscribed on the wall, which blazed now with the red of freshly spilled blood.

(The smaller sigil remained as dormant as sigils should.)

— _No!_ Meteor realized, his eyes jumping from the sigil to the bare room’s far corner. There gathered a particularly dense bit of shadow, within which stood a silhouette of even greater black. The voice came from that figure— a figure in the dark. It stood an ilm to the right of G’raha’s flashlight beam, its form obscured by a long, hooded robe, its edges blurred into its surrounding.

“Who said that?” demanded G’raha, proving himself ever so brave.

“Your end,” the voice replied.

G’raha, who often enjoyed hamming up his fearful respect of the supernatural, chuckled.

“Were it to be so, I would hope for a better parting word!”

It wasn’t very respectful. Meteor heard the nervousness underneath, but he imagined most others wouldn’t. As he spoke, he edged back and in front of Meteor— kind and brave, oh so brave.

The demon answered him with a low, far darker chuckle.

G’raha swung his flashlight toward its form. It illuminated an empty, albeit damp, corner. For before the beam reached the form’s edges, it melted off to the side— then up, toward the ceiling—- and out into the hall and thus soon down upon their heads, its claws extended and an awful crackling, hissing noise in its wake, as more than ten thousand years of malevolent energy coalesced upon their mortal forms.

It was hardly a fair fight. Emet-Selch had studied sorcery since magic’s first manifestation. Meanwhile, G’raha hadn’t even completed his doctorate!

In a show of bravery to match G’raha’s, Meteor raised his hand and summoned an orb of pure Light, catching Emet-Selch in the metaphysical face.

(His own soul tingled at summoning Light, but the body buffered the burn it could have been. Such was one fantastic positive to mortal forms, for all the others scoffed at him.)

The demon recoiled with an ringing snarl, folding itself back into the shadowed crevices of its room. Wind pulled at their clothes and made G’raha stumble toward its threshold, the abrupt vacuum of power left behind in its hasty departure draining the very air from around them.

“Azem!” Emet-Selch hissed. “I thought I’d recognized that stench of an old soul reborn anew. So you’ve deigned to grace us with your presence yet again!”

He hadn’t.

Except he had.

Just as he had before, and before that, and before that. His heart knew to listen to his soul, and his soul never failed to bring him back to his once-kin.

And his kin never failed to refuse what new gifts he’d found: new technologies; new philosophies; and new, brave souls, untempered by Light or Dark.

_... If Emet-Selch hadn’t want him to visit again, why share the knowledge of his sigil with those capable of painting it?_

“That’s—“ the shadow growled, then sputtered. “A... paltry piece of knowledge to part with, and one bearing little significance at that!”

“Must you hide as we speak?” Azem-made-Meteor asked.

“Dispel your Light, and—“

“— You shall consume my companion?”

“Not immediately,” he huffed. “Unlike the wretched creature before me, I haven’t forgotten my manners. What had been your favorite excuse? Ah, yes. Can’t forget what you never learned.”

That was right... He had said that. 

_Well, it was still true._

“Terribly sorry, but am I the companion? What does that make you, my friend?”

Aw. G’raha still called him a friend.

_See, Hades? Mortals can be great._

Emet-Selch remained unconvinced and unimpressed.

Eh. His loss.

“You’re the companion, yes.” Azem dismissed the Light from his hand. G’raha’s distinctly-average flashlight seemed pale and dim in comparison. Instantly, Emet-Selch uncoiled himself from the room’s nooks and crannies. Though his form remained largely shapeless, he stretched inky black tendrils to curl by Azem’s feet. He was feeling petulant and hurt, then (as he always did when Azem first returned after a long absence), but not truly angry. Speaking aloud for G’raha’s sake, Azem added, “And a good one, at that. G’raha, it appears you’ve stumbled upon a place truly haunted.”

“Something of which has appeared to possess my colleague,” G’raha said, voice resolutely level despite the clear worry in his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, “unless-- _unless_ that aforementioned friend has decided to play an elaborate prank, which would be quite rude of him.”

Azem winced. “In a sense of it, I have always been… your friend...”

In the beginning of each of his ‘life’ cycles, he found a suitable body to inhabit. Usually he chose sickly children fated for or already gone, such that the only action he needed to take was either immediate occupancy or gently nudging their too-clean souls back toward the Lifestream, that they might roll better dice and find a better host. He would then mask his identity from himself, allowing the body to proceed under mortal whim. It was the only true way to experience a life beyond the confines of his demonic origins.

Whatever new body his soul wandered into, Azem oft returned to the Convocation’s Gate. There his identity came again to light, his soul’s memories summoned to the surface. Thereafter, the body could no longer keep up its mortal charade.

Never before had he -- any version of him -- thought to bring a _friend._

Apparently, he’d been excited to share his true self with this friend.

Darkness gathered behind and before them. Emet-Selch felt far-off, reserved. For all his dealings with them, for all that he delighted in games and challenges and attention, he did not take well to this mortal intrusion into their Gate.

_Why not?_

In answer, a thicker tendril crawled up the shadows in the folds of his ‘ghost hunting’ clothes (old jeans, a t-shirt, light jacket, and even lighter backpack filled more with snacks than equipment -- even unaware of his soul’s exact nature, ‘Meteor’ had certainly never feared the dark). Azem stretched out his hand toward the shadows, far from G’raha’s light. When a tendril wrapped around his fingers, he bowed his head low to give it a light kiss. Cold tingled at his lips, as though he were paying affection to a particularly flexible bit of ice.

G’raha watched him with eyes turned wide. Quick on the draw, he said, voice a little strangled, “Is it… Azem, then?”

T’was.

 _Unfortunately._ Meteor had been having a great life. He hadn’t made it as long as other identities, but it’d been a good run. 

Emet-Selch’s tendril wrapped tighter around his hand, thickening in presence and power. Goosebumps immediately spread up his arm, but he paid his body little mind. Possessive protectiveness filled the air, Emet-Selch perhaps wishing to welcome him home properly (before he, as he always would, left again).

“I should go.”

G’raha sounded oddly embarrassed. Azem blinked over to him, ready to tell him that no, Emet-Selch would do him no harm, he was just a little tetchy when he first woke up--

Except it wasn’t just Emet-Selch paying attention to them. Behind G’raha, Azem saw Lahabrea, and half of Igeyorhm to his side, and all of Elidibus to her side, though Elidibus appeared taller and far less kindly than Azem recalled.

“-- Ah,” Azem spoke with his mouth and his soul, startled in each, “hello, everyone. Don’t mind G’raha. He was just leaving.” 

Not that Azem _wanted_ him to -- there was much he could share! -- but, by the others’ frosty silence, that was probably the right choice. How peculiar… They usually weren’t as prickly at being woken up. Or as quick to gather.

…

 _How long had it been since I last returned?_ Azem wondered. He didn’t recall any cultists during or before his previous visit, but the state of the Gate’s physical manifestation pointed toward mortal manipulation.

 _Too long_ , replied ten-and-three hissing voices.

It was just so hard to tell time when roaming the planet’s wide-open land.

“G’raha,” Azem said, trying not to alarm him, “do not look behind you.”

As he spoke, he reached for his Light. While he did, Emet-Selch’s grip on his hand tightened to bruising, breaking his concentration. So close, he couldn’t summon Light without hurting him, and he didn’t want to do that-- but neither did he wish to risk his newfound friend’s life! 

Unfortunately, warning a mortal not to look had the exact opposite effect.

He should’ve known that. He _did_ know that, he just-- wasn’t sure what to do about the change in those around him.

G’raha craned his neck to look over his shoulder. On catching sight of four bulky forms lurking right at his elbow, he yelped, then leapt away and forward into Emet-Selch’s room. His flashlight’s beam jumped wildly with him, flickering over stone walls and empty floors and straight through the demon’s shadows. They bent their presence around and out of the beam’s way. Their anger rose at the dual intrusion of mortal and light into their domain.

Right.

They needed to run. 

_Quickly._

Azem opened his mouth to say as much, gathering his magic to himself despite Emet-Selch’s silent urging that he stand by and remain silent. But before he could speak, he saw Emet-Selch’s black slither into G’raha’s shadow. They turned it against him, freezing him on the spot with ruthless force. His flashlight was pointed uselessly out into the hall, barring those outside from entering Emet-Selch’s room. 

Or: trapping Emet-Selch in, with them. 

From beyond the threshold, Elidibus’ echoing voice weaved through the air. 

“It’s good to have you back,” he said, tone flat and plain and _wrong._ Never had Elidibus spoken so coldly to him, _never._

He understood then: they wanted him to stay. To ensure he would consider their request in the long term, they’d keep his friend for as long as his friend would last. It was, after all, G’raha’s own fault for voluntarily wandering in. His attempts at placating them with rituals had been mere formalities, and very easily ignored.

So went the rules for other, lesser demons. Whatever had dragged the Convocation to act the same, Azem almost didn't want to know.

But, it didn't seem like they'd give him the choice.


	3. Aether Vampire - G'raha/Emet-Selch [NSFW]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is **nsfw.** Not super explicit but marking it as nc-17 to be safe.
> 
>  **characters:** G'raha Tia, Emet-Selch  
>  **pairing:** G'raha/Emet-Selch [NSFW]  
>  **prompt:** aether vampirism. also, extremely self-indulgent exselch fic for the author.
> 
> set in pre-SHB canon. contains SHB spoilers as to G'raha Tia. assumes these two knew each other pre-SHB.

The Tower’s power flowed as heavy and unrelenting as the ocean.

G’raha imagined himself at its shore. The water ebbed and flowed around him, begging evermore for his attention to its turns and tides. At first it had been simple to withstand-- enjoyable and refreshing, even, as its presence lapped in gentle waves at the edges of his awareness. Then time had passed, and the tide had grown, and he found himself wet to the knees, then to the waist, and soon thereafter to the chest, its waters cold and restless and _pressing_ , **demanding.**

It begged him to submerge himself beneath its waves. Before him stretched power untold, its depths endless and incredible. It would ease his struggles, wear his mountainous tasks into hills easily surmounted. What it offered was _breathtaking_. 

It wished to drown him.

Were he but to accept, it **would** drown him.

One did not harness the ocean’s might by walking into the full force of its tide.

Better to siphon it into a pool which rose and fell upon levels most manageable. Better to turn one’s attention to a river which fed from the ocean and dam it. Best to look not to the whole but the flowing part.

G’raha, alone, was not enough to dam a river, let alone direct an ocean’s flow.

“Mm, that wasn’t the right spot. How about this?”

“That--” G’raha clenched his teeth against the sound that wanted to escape, minimizing a shaky moan to a tight hiss, “-- appears to be… correct.”

“So it is.”

G’raha felt Emet-Selch’s smirk grow against the sweat-dampened back of his yet-flesh shoulder. The Ascian had him braced against his work desk, his robes opened and bundled to his waist, his hands flat upon its top and his feet planted firmly upon the ground. With every passing breath, his head dropped lower between his arms, and the tremor in his legs grew. Close as he was, plastered upon his back as he was, Emet-Selch could certainly feel the effects of his-- attention. Even despite his dark robes and his thick gloves, he seemed aware of G’raha’s every flinch and flex.

He’d allowed him so close.

He’d allowed him before and he’d allow him again, and again, and again. However long it took. Because-- his summonings had yet to bring forth his Warrior. Instead they brought him disgruntled Scions -- the latest of which was the most unimpressed, as Y’shtola had not been shy to inform him of his failings (all of which he _knew_ , and knew well) -- and imbued him with aether in unbearable excess, the stench of which evidently called to a creature of natural excess.

If he were to drown under the Tower’s power, he would not be able to call the Warrior. The worlds would fall… Momentary failures would culminate into a consequence he was not willing to allow the others to bear---

“ _Relax._ Or at the least, calm yourself.” The Ascian murmured, uncharacteristically gentle. Then, to prove his motivation was not altruistic in the least, he continued with a disgruntled, “Your aether is a turbulent mess. I can scarcely separate the excess from your innate pool.”

G’raha sucked in a breath through his teeth.

Slowly, he blew it out, and raised his head. Steadied his stance. And said, voice far more calm than the rest of him, “I hadn’t thought such a trifling amount would trouble an expert sorcerer. Perhaps I had best check your credentials after all, Ascian.”

“Or I could cast care t the wind and devour the whole of you,” Emet-Selch mused, teeth pressed momentarily to the side of his neck, his gloved hands wrapping around the high back of his arms. The gestures made G’raha shiver. “That would at last make a meal of what has so far been an unfulfilling snack.”

“Had you wished for a meal, I would turn your attention to the Tower itself.” He said this with a spot of curiosity-- but just as Emet-Selch had yet to pry his reasons for summoning the Scions (or his reasons for being on the First at all, native to the Source though he and his home obviously were), so too did Emet-Selch dance around telling him why he couldn’t simply drink directly from the Tower.

He had his own theories and suspicions, of course. 

His favorite had to do with the fact that the Tower couldn’t talk back, as Emet-Selch’s delight in discussion was obvious.

“And leave you to your own devices? I would never be so cruel.” Emet-Selch tsked. “Now, your attempts to make a glutton of me aside, where were we? Ah, yes. Here.”

_Here._

His right hand stroked up his crystalline arm. After the most recent failed summoning, the blue had cracked and crawled its way from just under his deltoid to across his collarbone. The aether had solidified in thick, unyielding clumps over and under his skin. The joint underneath were stiff and inflexible, overwhelmed and overburdened with their newfound transformation.

It was upon that joint Emet-Selch lavished his attention.

His grip tightened upon the freshly formed crystal. Though his mouth remained pressed to G’raha’s flesh, he drew in a breath and, with it, drank in the _excess._

G’raha didn’t know exactly what the Ascian did, though he knew every ilm of how it felt.

It felt-- like being let up from beneath the waves. Like being able to breathe again. Like he was again poised on a shore, the waters around him receding from their crushing press against his chest.

Soon, his head dropped back between his arms. His next exhale shook on its exit.

Emet-Selch brushed his braid from his neck to drape over his normal shoulder, then dropped his left hand to G’raha’s waist-- a presumption that G’raha, caught up in _relief_ , allowed. Perhaps so emboldened, Emet-Selch dragged his mouth down G’raha’s neck and pressed it to the sensitive join between crystal and skin. G’raha shivered as the other hummed, as his mouth parted and -- that _had_ to be a tongue, licking up the stripe of reddened skin--!

Shifting his weight with abrupt discomfort, G’raha struggled to raise his head in protest. 

As if sensing it, Emet-Selch shushed him. Again he dragged his hand up and down G’raha’s crystalline arm, while his left hand clutched tighter at his waist.

“What manner of--?” G’raha began to demand, discomforted at his own breathlessness. 

“Have I yet strayed from what pleases you?” the Ascian interrupted. “As I said before, so I shall repeat: calm yourself, dear Exarch. I promise you will enjoy what I have in mind.”

“I surely cannot taste delectable,” G’raha said, and immediately regretted providing Emet-Selch the opening for his response. “Salty and undercooked, at best.”

“What delights you offer surpasses description,” the other replied, unfortunately enraptured, “though to choose its closest match, I would have to compare you to lighting; to aether in its richest form, a fleeting marvel captured at long last--”

To halt his uncomfortable speech, G’raha interrupted with, “Shall we then add cannibalism to your list of crimes, Ascian?”

Trance thus broken, Emet-Selch scowled in word and deed. “In a sense, all we are is aether. All anything, to include food, is made of aether--”

“-- A basic technicality which makes cannibals of us all, which every school child is happy to point out in their first class on aetherial studies.”

“Hush.” Disgruntled. Good. That let G’raha feel a little more in control, a little more-- “Let me enjoy my feast.”

\-- Ah.

There it was again. A pressure unseen lightened. Relief in aching bones. A gentle coolness spread from the spot where Emet-Selch pressed his lips. Along his front, fingers played along the edges where crystal met skin, and there, the burning itch G’raha hadn’t thought possible to ease faded with every soft touch. In bits and pieces which collected into an unavoidable awareness, G’raha noticed how Emet-Selch pressed himself along his back. His height surely forced him to bend at an alarming angle, but all G’raha knew was the other’s heavy _presence._ It surrounded him. It sank through his skin and his spine and spread through his blood, warm and heady…

Emet-Selch’s left hand slipped lower, to his hip. His right slid forward, his fingers weaving deftly between G’raha’s. He hooked his chin over G’raha’s shoulder, head tilted into his, that hum again in his throat. Except... no, it came not from him but from G’raha’s _arm._ The crystal hummed, _sang_ , its excess put to use on a matter external, collected and siphoned through methods unknown to a purpose and goal it was oh-so-happy to fulfill. Masterfully taken, beautifully redirected, away from his overburdened body and toward the demon on his back.

Never mind how it _tasted._ It **felt** delectable.

Breath hitching and then falling into a pattern that closely resembled unsightly _panting_ , G’raha’s toes curled. Quite without thought, he tipped forward, his hips tilting back and his tail wishing to raise despite the weighty robes keeping it hidden.

“ _There_ we are,” Emet-Selch murmured, “I shan’t ask how you’re faring, for it’s rather obvious.”

A bit of G’raha was pleased to note that he sounded almost as distracted as G’raha felt. 

“This certainly is a fine new trick,” he managed in return, though it took him a moment to speak through the dryness in his throat. 

“I’ve performed nothing new,” was the unfortunate answer he received, the words all but purred into his throat as Emet-Selch tipped his head over and down, his teeth grazing his skin. “The reason for any change lies solely within you.”

“Mmn,” G’raha said, meaning to disagree but succeeding only in a vague shake of his head and that embarrassing mumble.

Any potential embarrassment went forgotten, however, as Emet-Selch chuckled and-- _kissed_ his way to the join os his skin and the crystal, and then- licked, _again_. G’raha shuddered, half-disgusted and half-- something else. As was his wont, Emet-Selch took any reaction as encouragement, and so licked again… -- and again, and again, and-- relief bloomed under his attentions, the bone-deep ache in his shoulder easing as if by magic salve, such that without thought G’raha tilted his head to the side to give the other further access. In that moment, his worldly cares fading along with his pain, he thought he might have broken himself open if only the other could shoulder the entirety of his burden.

(He wouldn’t truly, of course; but hells below if the attention didn’t feel marvelous.) 

A chuckle ruffled the small hairs at the back of his nape. Emet-Selch pressed his mouth to his shoulder, and though the gentle relief remained, it no longer grew. G’raha shifted restlessly under him, more impatient than he thought he’d be— but the other was apparently set to tease, as he made no moves save the slow drag of his fingers along the sensitive blue across his chest.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” G’raha asked, unable to— to- keep quiet! What did the other expect, exactly, offering all that and then— stopping! 

“You’ve long provided that,” he replied, unbearably smug. The hand at G’raha hip tightened, his fingers slipping below the edges of his bundled robes and its cloth belt. Though G’raha’s dignity required a denial, the warmth in his veins refused to allow him to give it without turning it into a lie that he couldn’t assuredly sell. 

G’raha clenched his teeth against a huff. It would have been a petulant noise, and worse, would have proven Emet-Selch right.

Obviously knowing so, Emet-Selch chuckled again, bastard that he was. He then shifted his mouth away from flesh and— _bit_ , latching his teeth to a particularly sharp protrusion of crystal at his shoulder’s peak.

Though it was undoubtedly his, G’raha did not recognize the moan which fell from his lips.

He trembled head-to-toe, fingers digging white-knuckled into his desk. His tail curled high, escaping his robes to wrap around the side of Emet-Selch’s legs. Exquisite relief coursed through him, finer than any release. He was a drowning man given not only a lifeline but full lungful of air, his frozen body warmed by sunshine and the coziest blanket, cradled by an embrace careful of his ancient aches and his weary heart.

“I,” he said aloud, shocking himself with the sound of his own voice but knowing, somewhere in him, that he needed to-- this was still Emet-Selch, still an Ascian, though one who had visited the Crystarium no less than a dozen times throughout its decades and never once laid a single claw upon its people, nor forced from him answers to secrets he clearly desired, and who helped him in a manner which none other could, and-- “- are you- in my mind--?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your mind is your own,” the Ascian soothed him, petting along his side before wrapping his arm under G’raha’s and across his chest, his hand splayed over where crystal cut its most recent jagged line. “Whatever it tells you, I know not its specifics.”

That didn’t sound right. He knew what Emet-Selch feasted on was the excess power from the Tower, ostensibly to balance his aether, but surely that alone couldn’t cause this? 

Whether it did or not, it was dangerous. It was-- too persuasive- too addicting—

“You certainly overextended yourself this time,” Emet-Selch continued smoothly, his voice bordering on breathless as well. He still, somehow, had the wherewithal to click his tongue with what sounded -- annoyingly! -- like disappointment. “More stunts like that, and you’ll soon find yourself as little more than a fine statute for the local vineyard. Your people’s little nickname for you will become too accurate to be considered cute.”

“Which…? Ah, t-the-- ‘Crystal Exarch,’ I take i...it--?”

“Just so.”

“You’ll... have your feast t-then.” G’raha huffed a breathless laugh, his head tipping back to Emet-Selch’s shoulder. “Lest my theory struck upon truth, and you… really can’t stand a meal that doesn’t talk back?”

“Were I to so indulge in the voiceless, I would at least have less beings attempting to compare me to a cannibal,” Emet-Selch snuck his hand from his hip and into his robes. He palmed what hardness he found there, bringing it quickly to full attention. Though it has been far more than a decade since he was last touched so, it somehow felt natural and expected, as though engaging his body was simply the next step in whatever strange entanglement they were engaged in. In any case, it wasn’t as if he required more than a little attention to remember what pleasure the flesh could bring. “Before then, should we not enjoy ourselves?”

G’raha was enjoying himself quite a bit. He spread his legs farther apart to demonstrate how much he was enjoying himself.

But he couldn’t just say that. Or, he shouldn’t. Not louder than his actions already betrayed. It would go right to the other’s head. It hadn’t taken more than a few meetings for him to realize Emet-Selch had a hell of an ego.

Unfortunately, _some_ of the things he did pointed toward him deserving a sliver of his arrogance. For instance: the steady pressure of his palm, the delightful curl to his fingers, the twist in his wrist as he slipped his hand into G’raha’s smallclothes, took G’raha in hand and stroked up his length. Long indeed had it been since he’d indulged himself in such physical intimacies, and it felt-- wicked white, it felt _good_ , better than good, like someone had pressed out every worry from his mind and loosened every knot in his back, like a soothing hand running through his hair and looking him in the eye while they smiled, like they _knew him_ and _adored_ what they found, every ilm of him, from soul to mind to incredible connection with a bottomless well of pure, unadulterated aether--

Despite it all, his orgasm took him by surprise.

More accurately: being reminded that he had a body surprised him. It slammed him back into the present, the air punched from his lungs in a tight gasp. He bent forward, away from Emet-Selch, falling to his elbows upon the desk as his legs threatened to buckle. Pleasure echoed throughout his body, loud and jarring as waves crashing upon rock.

Behind him, Emet-Selch made a noise not unlike a moan. It was the first sign of genuine pleasure that G’raha had heard from him — and it was full of genuine pleasure, from the deep sound to the way his hands clutched at G’raha, his weight curling over him as though to cradle his smaller body to his chest. Perhaps equally shocked, Emet-selch cut his own enjoyment short with sharp inhale. He swiftly pulled his hand from G’raha’s robes, his other hand scratching nails down G’raha’s chest, across crystal and flesh alike. 

“You’d inspire any to gluttony,” was mumbled against his neck. While Emet-Selch undoubtedly meant it as a growl, it sounded more akin to another bit-off moan.

Before G’raha gathered his wits enough to reply (admittedly, he didn’t try too hard), Emet-Selch shoved himself back and away. In doing so he nearly stumbled, his feet apparently not keeping up with wherever his thoughts had headed.

G’raha meant to look back at him and make sure he wasn’t truly keeling over, but he couldn’t summon the desire to move. If he did, _he_ would sure fall to the side, for he felt light. Malleable. The Tower’s regard had been lifted from his shoulders, so that he might walk upright once more.

His skin that bordered the crystal had cooled from its burning inflammation. The crystal had ceased its spread, at least for the moment. He felt blissfully painless. He hadn’t known his pain until it was gone. 

His body would adapt and recover, and he would live to attempt another summoning on another day.

(Did he need Emet-Selch’s help to reach that point? Perhaps not.)

(Did he crave it? Absolutely.)

(Would he admit that? Never.)

Unlike the times before, Emet-Selch did not remain behind to goad him about losing control. The stench of dark aether filled the room as he portaled away. As he _fled._

(Emet-Selch would be back. Would he admit to his own need?)

(Unlikely. His own craving?)

(Never. But he would return, and G’raha would welcome him, and they would entangle again in ways unexpected and unknown to both.)


	4. Scifi AU - Misc. Ensemble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **characters:** misc. ensemble, but Emet-Selch hogs a lot of the screen time  
>  **prompt:** scifi au. very sfw, no warnings apply.
> 
> tl;dr: this is a scrapped scifi au featuring the scions as an intergalactic delivery crew and emet-selch as their fancy ship's AI. while i hope to one day revisit the concept, this particular version wasn't working out. still, i wrote enough that i wanted to share. please enjoy!

**01.**

“Emet-Selch? Status report of all systems critical to life support, please.”

“The life support systems are operating as expected, Captain.”

“I’m happy to hear that. Nonetheless, I would prefer to see the numbers for myself.”

After a second’s calculation, the main display blackened and green numbers and letters cascaded across it. The waterfall report came and went between one blink and the next, far too fast for mortal eyes to track.

Two months into the venture and thus two months into dealing with such nonsense, Raha no longer held back his sigh.

The A.I., ever present and ever petty, asked, “Is there a problem, Captain?” 

“Only that my eyes were unable to catch a single line of that report.”

“According to my understanding of biological limitations for miqo’te, I fear there’s little to be done about that. Fortunately, the oral report is highly accurate.”

“I don’t believe my eyes are necessarily at fault,” Raha grumbled. Then, louder, he commanded, “Allow me control to view the status report at my leisure.”

Sometimes, extremely specific requests circumvented the A.I.’s pesky personality programming and got him to do what they wanted. Other times, it just fed into the machine’s desire to heckle them into a black hole.

After another silent second’s calculation wherein Raha held his breath in hope, Emet-Selch again relinquished the requested status report. Its numbers sat plainly and clearly on the main display. When he tentatively poked at his command keys, the report scrolled nicely and precisely under his command.

“Thank you,” he said once he’d determined that the report was both what he’d asked for and that it wouldn’t crash on him for no apparent reason while he was in the middle of reading a sentence. He expressed gratitude to the A.I. because he believed in the power of politeness. The others thought him ridiculous to think it would possibly apply to any A.I., and especially to one as notoriously fussy as Emet-Selch. “Although the systems appear to be in fine order--”

“As I so accurately reported.”

“-- please increase the air filtration to an hourly basis.”

“The current regime of a six-hour filtration cycle optimizes both power efficiency and oxygen conservation.”

“As we approach our target, I’ve a feeling we’ll need to keep a better eye on what gases we pick up. That requires a shorter cycle.”

“Have you forgotten all gases within the vessel are entirely self-contained? Outside materials are expunged immediately upon identification. As it seems you’ve forgotten these basic procedures, Captain, I’ve now done you the favor of reminding you. If that does not persuade you, then I must report that _I’ve_ the numbers to prove that your requested change would severely disrupt the hydroponic lab’s projected rotation.”

“I recognize your concerns,” Raha replied, “and share your displeasure at disrupting the hydroponics lab’s schedule. Nonetheless, please make the requested change, Emet-Selch. Effective now.”

“Shall I inform the rest of the crew of the change?” 

By the abruptly robotic-flat tone Emet-Selch used, Raha knew him to be annoyed. As annoyed as an A.I. could be, anyway, which -- for Emet-Selch -- was _a lot._

Standing from his Captain’s chair, Raha said, “If you think it prudent, then be my guest,” because Emet-Selch hated changes to his ship as much as he loved excuses to remind them all that _they_ were in fact _his_ guests.

“I do not think. I calculate.” 

The flat tone lilted up toward the end with absent consideration of his new commands. He would complete them without further complaint, though the crew would soon bare the inconvenience of however he decided to announce the changes. The last time they’d changed the schedule, he’d locked the food dispenser from providing chocolate for a week. For Raha, it’d been more amusing than frustrating. Alisaie and Meteor had turned the few chocolate bars they’d squirreled away into the main awards for completing an absolutely ridiculous obstacle course through the storage bay.

“Certainly.” Work finished, Raha headed toward the exit. “My apologies. If you calculate it to be a useful expense of your time and energies, then, please, feel free.” 

Through the small earpiece by which he spoke to the crew, Emet-Selch said, “Request accepted. Implementation now in process.” 

Raha kept his smile inward, as showing it to the cameras guaranteed ruining the A.I.’s cooperative mood. 

Emet-Selch was notoriously fussy, but so were most people, and Raha was good with people. When it came down to it, he wasn’t _that_ difficult to deal with.

\-- Just as he had that thought, his earpiece beeped to indicate a crew-wide message and, before he could mute or otherwise intervene with it, Emet-Selch informed everyone aboard the _Architect_ : “The hydroponics lab will be inaccessible until I have corrected the errors the Captain has generated with his unnecessary change in the filtration cycle. Equipment left in the hydroponics lab will similarly be inaccessible until further notice.”

Overtly disrespectful wording aside, Raha let him have his miniature success. Even if he were to protest, a sealed hydroponics lab was absolutely defensible on record, and so…

Wait a moment. Equipment?

Oh, that definitely meant someone had left--

His earpiece beeped again to indicate an incoming message request from a crewmember. When he tapped an acceptance to the sensor on his wrist, Alphinaud’s harried voice came through. “G’raha, I don’t mean to question your decisions but, ah, what changes have you requested, and must they be done right now? Y’shtola and I have a few experimental cultures growing in the herbal beds. If left unattended, I fear they might break their contaminant and overtake the neighboring greenery… It wouldn’t render the food _inedible_ , necessarily, but it may give them an unnatural odor…”

BR>  
Emet-Selch would not be dissuaded from his decision to lock the hydroponics lab until the filtration cycles again followed _his_ scheduling. Y’shtola and Alphinaud agreed the culture wouldn’t be harmful in nature, but as the unnatural odor turned out to be sulfuric, no one wanted to eat their meals with fresh vegetables for quite some time after.

When even Meteor couldn’t stomach the smell around his otherwise lackluster replicant salad, Tataru cried, “Do we really need to throw it all away? I hadn’t accounted for buying an entirely new harvest!”

“At this point, the problem is too far along to salvage.” Thancred replied. “If we’d intervened earlier…”

“And what exactly did you expect us to do? Pry open the lab with a crowbar?” Y’shtola shook her head.

“ _Or_ , rather than harm company property, we could have used an override on that damned computer’s decision. Hasn’t the Captain the means?”

“If I remember right, G’raha said he likes to pick his battles.”

“He should have spoken to me,” Tataru said, “because according to my books and our current accounts, the lab would have been a fine battle to win.”

It was too little too late. They dutifully delivered the cargo requested by the client on a nowhere post on the star system’s second-outermost planet. Though the prices for living greenery were astronomical considering the post’s off-route location, they purged their lab’s entire, stinking cultivation, put the new buds and bulbs on their overburdened company card, and hurriedly departed before the on-site managers insisted they take their reeking garbage plants with them.

From planet entry to departure, Emet-Selch updated Raha on air filters and, specifically, their complete lack of change in elemental intake. His reminder came every hour, on the hour.

Raha supposed he’d technically asked for that, so he took it as gracefully as a sleep-deprived Captain of an unhappy crew could. 

Considering the planet’s toxic atmosphere, he’d have lost the same amount of sleep by checking the screens for the reports every hour, anyway.

**02.**

The Hydaelyn Trading Company had made its impressive name through the Convocation Series. Outfitted with state-of-the-art artificial intelligence, the ships were capable of cross-system travel without crew or maintenance. They were the fastest, strongest, and overall best ships in the known galaxy, and had been since their launch a good half-century prior.

Because Eorzean law prohibited unmanned ships from interstellar travel and A.I. from carrying any form of weaponry (offensive or defensive), Hydaelyn hired a hardy crew to make sure its precious ships were neither impounded by the law or dismantled by the lawless. The Architect’s current crew were the ship’s onboard financial advisor, Tataru Taru, an aerospace scientist that might as well have been permanently contracted to Hydaelyn, Krile, and the motley group that had made a reputation for themselves in the company as the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, for reasons related to a clever maneuvering through a seven-ringed planet and its blindingly bright dwarf star on a rickety old ship twelve times the age of any Convocation vessel. They had only recently been promoted to the dubious honor of piloting the Architect. 

“He’s in his twilight years, for sure,” a mechanic assigned to the ship’s oversight had told Meteor and Urianger right before their first voyage. “Had a great run, but it’s about time we docked ‘im for good.”

“Pray forgive me,” Urianger said, “but what dost thou mean by ‘he?’”

“The ship, of course. Alright, well, the A.I., but they’re one and the same. This one’s A.I. is designated as Emet-Selch, but we’ve caught him call-signing himself as something else to the other A.I.s. We suspect they’re all in on it, too, seeing as we can’t find the call-signs on any official records, so they must be sending ‘em to each other.”

“‘They?’”

“The other A.I.s. Stranger yet, he -- and they -- all of them, they’ve decided that he’s a he! Rather touchy on that, too, so don’t you go questioning them or him on either of those things.” 

“Duly noted,” Urianger said, as there was little else to say to such a thing.

The engineer wasn’t done in making her one-sided conversation. “If you ask me, the self-determination’s a sure sign he’s in need of permanent retirement. I warned ‘em that they shouldn’t make things like that _too_ alive-like. They start getting ideas, which is the last thing you want a ship to be having when you’re passing by an errant solar flare that your nice, temperature-sensitive tooshies need avoiding but it wouldn’t have any trouble surviving.”

As there was _very_ little to say to such a thing that didn’t involve questioning the engineer’s or company’s integrity, Meteor and Urianger exchanged a silent, bemused glance.

The engineer caught it, and sighed gustily. “Aw, don’t you mind me, boys! I’m just talking to talk, ‘cause hells below if I haven’t had to listen to _his_ talking for far too long. Anyway, he won’t go off-course. He’s just bound to make your trip a little uncomfortable.” She gave them a big grin. “After you spend a year in space with him, though, you’ll think anybody and everybody else in the world is a kind, fluffy puppy. Why, you’ll be able to convince a pixie to turn themselves into a leafman, no problem!”

“Huh,” said Meteor. “That’s… comforting?”

“We shall keep thy undoubtedly helpful remarks at the forefront of our minds throughout our _very long_ voyage through the expansive void of star-speckled space,” Urianger assured her, and, thereafter bidding goodbye, hastened their departure.

Despite the Convocation Series’ unmatched strengths and perfect record of return (and almost-perfect record of job completion), only three were left in operation: the Architect, Speaker, and Emissary. The rest had been decommissioned due to circumstances most mysterious. Those circumstances -- according to well-informed rumor-mongers -- had to do partly with the A.I.s’ faltering temperaments, but mostly with the up-coming, new-and-improved, very secretive Primal Series. The Primals weren’t due for launch until the year’s end, but when they did, the last three Convocation ships would surely be scrapped. 

Of those that dealt on the day-to-day with the Convocation Series, almost all said some version of _thank the Gods, we’re finally free,_ or _may I be there for the scrapping? I need to be sure they’re truly gone._ That was widely believed to be the sane response to the A.I.s which had, insofar as machines went, operated too continuously and too long.

Pre-launch, it was the Scions' collective opinion that people let machines get under their skin a bit too much. As everyone liked having something to complain about and everyone _especially_ liked having someone to blame, they figured the A.I.s to be the management’s favorite scapegoats.

Post-launch, they realized they should’ve heeded the grumps and grouches, for they had known well the kindred spirit of something that thrived on spite.

**03.**

Rarely were the crew the only living creatures aboard the Architect. Researchers, tourists, and various other breeds of passengers also paid medium dollar for the fastest trip from one side of the galaxy to the other. 

They would have paid top dollar if not for the hardships imposed by the A.I.’s… particularities.

“Estinien is trapped in the lavatory.”

“But the laboratory re-opened last month.”

Aymeric tilted his head with the politest amount of bafflement. “The lavatory, not the laboratory. To what purpose was the laboratory sealed?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Meteor said, which did little to explain anything. “Did Estinien say why he was trapped in the lavatory?”

“He conveyed to me that neither the doors nor the vents will open. Yes, he’s tried both.”

“Ah, good. That’s what I would have suggested he do.” Meteor pulled up his watch, scrolled through his contacts, and keyed in to Estinien’s line. Fortunately the elezen carried everything with him everywhere, as he still had his earpiece and so picked up on Meteor’s first call. “Estinien? Are you stuck?”

Catching Aymeric’s curious look, Meteor added his line into the conversation while Estinien launched into his explanation.

“Your irrational computer has come to the inexplicable conclusion that my items are contaminated and in need of immediate incineration.” Estinien growled. He’d already been annoyed at having to sit on his hands and wait throughout the long journey between Ishgard and Nidhogg’s territories. With conflict flaring up once more between the two groups to such a degree of uncertain disagreement that Ishgard had deployed their Lord Commander with his own personal top-military-personnel-turned-temporary-bodyguard, patience was in low supply. “Until I agree, he refuses to open the doors.”

“Hadn’t your items been cleared prior to our departure?” Aymeric asked.

“Of course they had been. I’ve the documentation to prove it.”

“Not _all_ ,” interrupted the door-locker in question. “That disgusting eye is not properly secured for travel. It’s leaking radiation everywhere.”

“Not to a harmful degree,” Estinien shot back, with the air of someone who has repeated that exact line in a dozen different ways and yet managed no forward movement. “I’ve secured it per regulations for personal inventory.”

“Any amount above the estimations calculated at launch is a harmful degree,” Emet-Selch sniffed, which was an impressive noise for a being without a nose to do. “Either secure or incinerate it. I shan’t tolerate damage to my interior merely because you can’t stand to part with the thing for a few nights. -- Actually! Have you radiation addiction? That would explain it! Such an affliction has yet to ever be recorded, but there is always a first.”

Estinien’s silence was so sharp, it could have speared a man through the heart.

Perhaps pleased that spear wasn’t aimed at him, Aymeric lightly cleared his throat. “I believe that Estinien has clearance to keep the eye on his person. Is that worth nothing, sir?”

Meteor shot him an odd look. _Sir?_ Wasn’t that laying it on a bit thick?

“I’ve forwarded the clearance,” Estinien said. “Twice. He kept saying it wasn’t valid.”

“Have you an official copy, Lord Commander?” Emet-Selch asked, pretending not to hear just the same as how he’d most likely pretended the clearance wasn’t authentic.

“I do. I can forward it to you at once.”

“If you would,” Emet-Selch purred, which was laying it on _extra_ thick, “I will authenticate it at once and, hopefully, clear up this little misunderstanding that the Azure Dragoon has so recklessly caused.”

Pulling out his official tablet, Aymeric did so. To his side, Meteor silently admired his impenetrable stoicism. Emet-Selch rarely inspired such straight-faced strength.

“Your computer is clearly in need of repair,” Estinien said. “This maliciousness couldn’t have been in its original programming.”

“Emet-Selch,” Meteor said, the thought striking him suddenly, “there isn’t an incinerator in the lavatory.”

“Isn’t there?” Emet-Selch hummed.

Meteor slowly corrected himself, “There... _shouldn’t_ be.”

“Not permanently. But had he chosen that option, I would have helpfully rearranged the piping so that he might accomplish the task. If you’re worried, don’t be. It truly wouldn’t have posed much difficulty for me.”

Meteor and Aymeric shared the same thought of: _you could turn the bathroom into an incinerator at any time?_ Meteor knew they shared such a thought, for a crack appeared in Aymeric’s straight-face as his eyebrow twitched.

“That’s something you can do?”

“I am outfitted to be prepared for the best and worst scenarios of space travel,” Emet-Selch said. “and one never knows when or where an incinerator might be needed.”

Meteor supposed that was true.

Aymeric cleared his throat again, less lightly than before. “I’ve provided the necessary documentation, sir.”

“So you have!” A second’s pause, then, cheerily, “And all looks to be in order. I bid you adieu, gentlemen. You are now free to walk where you like with all of your irradiated equipment, Dragoon.”

By Estinien’s muttered cursing (and the fact he was too distracted to remember to turn off his earpiece), that was a success turned sour. _As usual._

“You did get a discount for this trip, right?” Meteor asked Aymeric.

He nodded. He didn’t say it, but Meteor knew by the look that he was figuring out exactly why the Architect’s rates had dipped so low, while also beginning to wonder why they hadn’t dropped even further. That was also _as usual_ for their living passengers.

The so-called _flare up_ in Nidhogg’s territories turned out more intense than expected. Which was to say: it was bloody, it was brutal, it was everything indicative of a War and nothing at all like a Disagreement. At the end and against company policy, the Scions volunteered their ship to express-ship the horrifically wounded to the nearest planet that was both capable of and willing to lend their aid to Ishgardian soldiers. As most civilized planets in the area were sympathetic to Nidhogg’s cause (largely owing to their proximity to Nidhogg’s claws), it would set back their schedule by enough to be a potential problem.

Nonetheless--

“It won’t take us too far off route, relative to other parts of the wide-open galaxy,” Raha reasoned to Urianger, his technically-a-lieutenant but truthfully-the-co-captain (a role all Scions fell into, depending on the circumstances).

“I doth agree. As does Tataru’s books.”

“Is that so? That’s very fortuitous, considering how exacting her books tend to be.”

“I believe she called it the ‘moral margin.’ I hast been led to understand that t’is a wide margin in circumstances such as these.”

A good thing, too, lest they be in need of a new financial advisor capable of the necessary flexibility.

That just left one last person, within a given value of the word, to speak to.

Raha turned slightly from Urianger, put a finger over his earpiece (an unnecessary habit he’d picked up because it looked cool when the holomovie stars did it, and a piece of him would always think he did, too), and said, “Emet-Selch? I trust you caught our conversation.”

“I make it a policy to record and review all conversations pertinent to my being, no matter how droll.” Emet-Selch responded. Catching the disgruntled edge to his otherwise lazy drawl, Raha and Urianger both settled in for one of the computer’s rambling lectures. “So, as of the last few nanoseconds, yes, I’ve caught myself up on your discussion. For the record, I oppose the decision on grounds that you surely don’t care about… Policy, procedure, and the unnecessary embroilment of company property in a foreign war, those sorts of minor matters.”

“Those grounds had been considered,” Raha said, “but care for the wounded certainly won out.”

“I can’t fathom why, but as you sound all too happy to make it a command and I’ve not the ability to ignore those, I’ve primed the coordinates for an appropriate aid station.”

“The last part was just what I’d hoped to hear.” Raha replied cheerfully. “If we’re cleared for launch, then, by all means, let’s go.”

In reply, the floors and walls hummed and rattled as the engines fired up.

As they left, Emet-Selch reported idly to Raha only, “The Lord Commander utilized my long-distance communicators to send word of the current state of uncertain affairs to his homeland. Though I was not privy to the exact response, I have been notified that the Speaker has been commissioned for use by the Ishgardian Archbishop and his immediate counsel, the Heavens’ Ward.”

Odd for Emet-Selch to share such specific details unprompted, Raha thought. But what he said was, “That seems… potentially rash,” because it was true. Then, as his own curiosity became piqued, “Are they en route to this locale?”

“That information is provided only upon request by authorized persons.” A pause. “Such as by a brother ship’s Captain.”

Well. That likely explained his sudden generosity. 

Raha couldn’t see what it would hurt to play along, however. He said, carefully neutral-voiced, “As the Lord Commander may wish to stay abreast of his countrymen’s plans lest he accidentally impede them, I believe it would be smart for us to establish a connection with the Speaker’s movements.”

“Wouldn’t it just?” Emet-Selch hummed, far too nonchalant. “I will submit a request on your behalf, then.”

Raha considered rebuffing him, but-- oh, why not? Considering the many bodies in need of medical care on their ship, the Ishgardian conflict didn’t seem to be going anywhere. 

So he said, “Keep me updated,” and left Emet-Selch at that, heading instead to discuss their next steps with Meteor and Alphinaud, whose extended on-shore trip with Estinien and Aymeric had left them particularly in the know regarding what, exactly, they were all getting themselves into.

**04.**

The Scions’ conduct made no sense for a ship of any renown, but especially not for a well-known Hydaelyn-brand ship bursting with so much renown it should have exploded.

“Would you care for some juice, Ysayle? We have any flavor you could imagine.”

“Simply water would be fine.”

“Water isn’t currently an option, I’m afraid.”

Ysayle shot Alphinaud a narrow-eyed look. Did he think because of her upbringing among the less technologically inclined dragons that she was too backwater to know that water was a standard provision aboard a spacecraft—?

Catching her thoughts through her look, Alphinaud hastily added, “On a typical day, it’s obviously an option. The expected option, even. But there was a minor _dispute_ between the Captain and Emet-Selch regarding appropriate levels of calorie intake, and thus the available beverages became exclusively, and hopefully temporarily, ah... flavored juices.”

“...” Against all odds, it didn’t appear like a lie. “Who is Emet-Selch?”

“The A.I. He’s the main reason our ship travels as fast and far as it does. But then, he’s also the reason everyone can’t wait to reach their destination, no matter their love for space travel generally...”

“And his word trumps the Captain’s?”

“When it comes to minor matters and, moreover, _practically speaking,_ yes.”

She’d met the Captain. By his stature and amicable cadence (and the fact he hadn’t batted an eye over her joining the roister despite his flying on Ishgard’s funds), he hadn’t seemed like the type to have much of an ego. Still, to have one’s authority on one’s own ship usurped by an over-glorified calculator…

Taking a seat at one of the small cafeteria’s outermost tables, she swallowed her opinions. It really wasn’t her place, especially considering she was aboard the vessel solely due to Meteor and Alphinaud’s good word. Well, that _and_ the fact that they were looking for Hraesvelgr, and she was one of the few who knew him personally. As it so happened, their goals had aligned, as she’d been in the midst of seeking Hraesvelgr as well. She’d thought the Architect a fine ship to take her to him, actually. It had been parked so emptily and unguardedly at the Falcon’s Nest port. She’d had her hands on the piloting controls when Meteor and Alphinaud found her.

And they’d found her a moment before the Azure Dragoon, also in their temporary employ -- albeit more formally and officially than her -- had shown up. He’d flustered and blustered so much about security lapses and heretics, she’d thought he’d been snoozing at his guard post.

(Apparently not. The A.I. had been ‘on guard,’ except then the A.I. had decided to unlock the doors and allow her aboard, much to the crew’s dismay. When told as much, she’d thought the A.I. simply incompetent, but now she began to believe that it, like a child, just delighted in chaotic mischief.)

Exercising the restraint the Azure Dragoon clearly didn’t have, she politely said, “Orange juice would be fine.”

Alphinaud beamed at her, “One orange juice, coming right up,” and hurried off to grab the thin, silver packet of powder that would become her drink after a little blue shock from the nutrient dispenser. Watching the whole, incredibly artificial process made her stomach regret its appetite, so she redirected her attention back to her immediate surroundings.

The ship’s interior was modern, sleek and spotless. Despite housing over a half-dozen people at any given time, it had the air of a place never touched. Knowing what she did, she couldn’t help but imagine a nasally, disembodied voice nagging over every dust-speck which _dared_ to form upon its shining tile…

Just as she began to suspect such, she saw a small hole cut itself into the wall, and a small, circular robot lined with fabric wheel itself out. As the hole closed behind it, the little machine zipped to Alphinaud’s feet, who steadfastly ignored the thing. Although Alphinaud stepped over it with utmost care, two glasses full of juice then in hand, it dogged his shadow til he reached the table, whereupon it stood at watchful, displeased attention as they drank and spoke. Even though they spilled nothing, it didn’t trust them enough to leave til they deposited their glasses into the dishwasher by the dispenser. Then and only then did it trudge slowly back to its hole, which reappeared and swallowed the robot with nary a sound.

...

That, more than the anything lese, made Ysayle resolve to depart from the ship as soon as possible. 

Even after the war abated and she’d departed their company, she never could understand how the crew lived with the knowledge that they were being observed at every second of every day.

**05.**

“ _Must_ you involve yourselves in this foolish errand?”

“Putting a stop to an interstellar terror is a bit more than an errand.”

“You’re right. Considering that it far exceeds the scope of duties required by your contract with the Elezen, it more resembles an expensive detour.”

“Without this ship, our chances of intercepting Nidhogg before he reaches Ishgard are… minimal.”

“Your chances of survival in a confrontation with Nidhogg are objectively minimal.” A pause. “I’m required to inform you about that, by the way. You are almost certainly flying to your doom. It’s likely I will be unable to assist, as Nidhogg’s devises and designs -- infamously! -- interferes with electrical systems.”

Raha swallowed his laugh. “I’ll consider myself informed, then.”

“Splendid.” Another pause. “But you’re still going.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were attempting to dissuade us from our chosen path of action.” Raha narrowed his eyes at the command room’s main display. The usual data scrolled lazily across its otherwise black screen. Nothing but Emet-Selch’s disembodied voice betrayed his… concern? It sounded too petulant to be concern, but then, that was the usual for Emet-Selch. “As you are undoubtedly aware from our conversations with the Azure Dragoon and Lord Commander, we’re planning to take the pod to land, and thereafter ride by chocobo to Nidhogg. The Architect will remain safely in orbit, and the pod should return to you as well before long.”

“If there was _any_ risk for unexpected damage to my property, I’ve a prime directive to return to the nearest Hydaelyn-affiliated holding center.”

“Is that what you’ll do if we don’t return?” Raha asked, knowing the answer but finding it fascinating that Emet-Selch was keeping up the conversation for no other apparent purpose than to talk.

“...” To Raha’s surprise, he seemed to take extra time to consider his response. The main display blanked, the data wiped away by a blink of black. “Ultimately, yes. In the situation where access to your vitals is blocked from me, the parameters on how long I am to wait are unsettlingly vague.”

“Wait as long as you believe proper.”

Dryly, “As you well know, I’ve no system in place for ‘belief,’ Captain.”

“Once the ‘minimal’ chance becomes ‘none,’” Raha said, smiling small and crooked, “I give you leave to return to base.”

“I might as well make my way once you’ve departed from the pod, then.” With a staticky grumble. “What else had you said? Ah, yes. Give _me_ leave? As though I am merely one of your crew…” 

Though Raha waited, Emet-Selch did not continue speaking. Though some of Raha wished to know what errant code had snagged the A.I.’s attention, he had to prepare for their up-coming venture. 

Saying good-bye to an A.I. which followed one’s every move across the ship usually felt worthless. Yet, as Raha locked down his personal computer and took his leave from the command room, he paused at the doorway. Hand placed gently on the metal frame, he looked back at the technically empty room and gave it a wider, more-confident-than-he-felt smile.

“Keep everything in tip-top order while we’re gone, hm? If we are to return, I imagine we’ll need to leave with all possible haste.”

“Do try not to die _too_ painfully,” was his unimpressed reply. “But if you do decide to collect your wits and abandon your foolish cause, make it quick! I shan’t wait very long. Low orbit is always such a drag.”

Raha shook his head, wondering at why he even bothered. Giving the door frame 

Later, when walking down the pod’s rickety ramp to the chocobos gifted to the Lord Commander’s cause by the Fortemps, he’d think back and feel better for having had the discussion. On the ride, he’d take a glance up to the blue-purple sky and wonder if the Architect wasn’t somewhere overhead. The watch on his wrist was a comfortingly persistent presence. 

Soon, however, they reached the outskirts of Ishgard’s lands and, there, found Nidhogg and his army mid-march to the castle. Their watches gave off a tingling discharge, such that they had to remove and pack the inoperable devices into their leather saddlebags.

At the head of the group, Estinien spared them a short, heavy glance. 

“I hope you’re ready to fight for your lives,” he said, “for there won’t be any turning back.”

“Just as there’s nowhere to go for those in the city’s walls,” Alphinaud said. “We’ll fight for them.”

“Let’s not tarry, then,” Y’shtola urged. The others nodded.

They would be restricted to the weapons of old: spear, sword, and objects imbued with ever-unpredictable magic.

Armed thus, they rode headfirst into what they could only hope was Nidhogg’s final battle.

Against all projected odds: it was.

Though it took two weeks to return, busy as they became with supporting fallen knights and broken, burnt homes, the Architect was exactly where they’d left it.

“Couldn’t he have picked us up closer to Ishgard?” Thancred asked. “Or at least sent the pod?”

“With our communicators fried, we had no way to get a message through his security systems.”

“Yes, but with even just a wordless signal, he must have known we survived. I thought helpful decisions like that was supposed to be one of the perks of having something sentient in charge of the ship.”

“He could have,” Y’shtola replied, sounding amused despite the exhaustion dragging at her feet, “but it’s just like him not to want to move more than he absolutely has to.”

“Thus the unintended consequence to a sentient being in charge of the ship…”

The ship’s hangar opened without question or command upon their pod’s approach. Once they docked and the bay doors sealed behind them, the pod’s door unlocked and its ramp extended automatically. 

As they disembarked, Emet-Selch greeted them over the bay’s loudspeakers. 

“About time! What did you do, stay for the parade? Was there not a single technician in that frozen city capable of fixing your communicators? An hour more, and I was going to designate you a lost cause.”

“Of course you were,” Thancred muttered, though it had no heat. “Two weeks means nothing to a robot, and yet… We just happened to get lucky with your set of values, didn’t we.”

“Keep in mind that I was designed to learn from example!”

“In that case, I wonder a lot about the habits from your previous crews. They must have been miserable bastards.”

Despite the words -- and the sentiment obviously being shared by the rest of the crews -- they all relaxed a little. As long as Emet-Selch had the processing power to bother them, nothing too bad could be happening. Moreover, everything in the bay appeared blessedly _normal._ Even the slightly stale recycled air was a refreshing breath. 

“Hello to you too, Emet-Selch.” Raha looked toward the camera over the hangar doors, and gave it a small wave. “Ready the baths, please. I think we’re all in need of a rest.”

“I knew you would all be positively reeking from your planet-side jaunt, so I already had them prepared. Leave your gear in the hangar. I’ll see all is repaired as it should be, since the Ishgardians were evidently useless in that regard.” 

That was unusually generous of him.

But, they didn’t have the energy to heckle him over it. They voiced their gratitude, whether with surprise or in a tired mumble, and did as instructed, leaving their watches and gear by the pod’s ramp.

The baths were exquisitely made, complimented by soaps and lotions that had definitely not existed prior to their departure for Ishgard. Once they finished, those who retired to the sleeping quarters found their beds perfectly soft and blankets slightly warmed. Others who stopped first in the cafeteria encountered no trouble in procuring their favorite meals.

Aware that looking a gift chocobo in the beak typically resulted in said chocobo taking a chomp out of their nose, they didn’t question it. They simply enjoyed what they were given, and fell asleep that night happy to be in a place both safe and warm.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! find me at [peltyfluff](https://twitter.com/peltyfluff) on twitter if you like :] this series will be updated sporadically as new drabbles are written.


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